


Modern Hero

by domesticadventures



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Communication, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s11e08 Just My Imagination, Gen, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 21:01:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5348363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticadventures/pseuds/domesticadventures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At nine years old, Sam had looked at Dean, who got to go on hunts, who was trusted with knives, who knew how to drive a car and hustle pool and fake an ID. Dean, who saved lives. Who was a hero.</p>
<p>He looked at Dean and he thought: <i>I can be anything.</i></p>
<p>
  <i>I want to be him.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Modern Hero

**Author's Note:**

  * For [propinquitous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/gifts).



Every night before she put Sam to bed, Mary used to whisper, “Angels are watching over you.” Sam knows this only because Dean told him.

Mary was wrong, of course. Angels weren’t watching over him -- they were sticking their meddling fingers in his entire goddamn life. Sam knows from personal experience.

As far as Sam is concerned, angels can go to hell.

Sam will make an exception for Cas. Just like he suspects Dean always will, too. But Sam didn’t need angels to watch over him, anyway. He had Sully, and Sully was a hell of a lot better.

Sam sits in the passenger seat and looks at his brother and thinks: _I wonder who Dean had._

He’s still stuck on that phone call he’d had with Dean the last time he saw Sully. He can remember it so clearly, how desperately he had wanted to start hunting. He remembers the argument he had made, the one that seemed brilliant to his nine year old self: that Dean had started even earlier than Sam had, so why wasn’t Sam ready yet?

_You can be whatever you want to be,_ Sully said. _You’re not Dean, you’re not your dad. You’re Sam and Sam’s so awesome._

It had been a great to hear. It had been even better to believe. He had needed it, then, that faith in himself, that belief that he could do anything and be anyone.

At nine years old, Sam had looked at Dean, who got to go on hunts, who was trusted with knives, who knew how to drive a car and hustle pool and fake an ID. Dean, who saved lives. Who was a hero.

He looked at Dean and he thought: _I can be anything._

_I want to be him._

At thirty-two, Sam looks at Dean and sees what he actually must have been like at thirteen. Dean, who only had their father to talk to. Who never got to laugh and joke and dream, who was never told he could be something else or have something else, never heard someone tell him how awesome he was.

Dean, who was just a kid but was still expected to be a hero.

He wonders how lonely Dean must have been.

Sam thinks, _Dean probably needed an imaginary friend just as much as I did. Maybe even more._

And then he thinks, _Why_ didn’t _Dean have an imaginary friend?_

Dean isn’t surprised by a lot. Hasn’t ever been, for as long as Sam can remember. But he had been freaked out about Sully, angry and on edge and unsettled. Like he couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that something like Sully could exist. Something nonhuman that wasn’t interested in killing him, something that he didn’t need to kill. Something that was good and kind and just wanted to help. Something so unlike every lesson Dean had been learning since he was four years old.

It occurs to Sam that even thirty years later, this is something Dean is still trying to learn.

Sam feels really sad for Dean, all of a sudden.

He thinks of the phone call and he says, “Hey, Dean, you remember my first hunt? Where I had to take the bus all the way to Milwaukee?”

Dean keeps his face carefully neutral as he says, “Yeah, how could I forget?”

“What made Dad change his mind?”

There’s a long pause before Dean answers. “I don’t remember,” he says, finally.

“First you couldn’t forget, and now suddenly you can’t remember?” Sam says, as gently as possible, so it doesn’t sound like an accusation.

Dean tightens his grip on the steering wheel. His jaw works for a solid minute before he says, “He didn’t.”

“He didn’t what?”

“Change his mind,” Dean says, voice strained.

Something cold settles in Sam’s stomach. He asks, “What do you mean?”

“I was supposed to convince you to come the first time I called,” Dean says. “To tell you to get on the bus asap. God, we waited at that bus station for hours before Dad caught on.” Dean laughs, short and sharp and without humor. “He didn’t exactly give up like I’d hoped.”

Something catches in Sam’s throat. He swallows it down. He says, “You were scared.”

“Christ, Sam,” Dean says, and there’s something in his voice that Sam hasn’t heard before, some small broken remnant of a hurt nearly three decades old. “Of course I was scared. You were _nine._ ”

Sam has spent his fair share of time being bitter and upset about Dean’s relationship with John, being jealous and dismissive of it in equal measure. Of wanting it for himself and wanting something better for Dean.

Maybe Dean wanted something better for himself, too.

Sam wonders how many things Dean did so Sam didn’t have to. How many lies he told their father. How many monsters he faced, how much he gave up.

Sam thinks about how Sully had tried for so long to save him from the life, to keep him away from those horrors, to give him a chance to do something else, and he realizes: Dean has been trying even longer.

After a long time, Sam says, “You know it’s not your fault, right? That I wound up in the life?”

Dean scoffs. He says, “You said it yourself, Sam. You’ve been trying to be like me since you were four. Of course it’s my fault.”

“It’s not,” Sam says. When Dean turns to give him a skeptical look, he repeats, more insistently, “It’s _not._ You were just a kid, Dean. Most kids are dealing with braces and acne and...and skinned knees, and meanwhile you were already trying to protect me from things you never even should have had to fight.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean mumbles, “that was my one job, and I couldn’t even get that right.”

“You didn’t fail me, Dean,” Sam insists. “You didn’t, all right? It’s never been easy, but you’re still trying to protect me, even now. And I’m grateful. I am. I know how much you’ve given up for me.”

Dean doesn’t say anything. He stares out onto the road and jerks one shoulder in a shrug.

“You know it’s not your fault I was lonely, either, right?” Sam adds, softly. “It’s not your fault I needed Sully. You deserved to have someone give a shit about the fact that you were lonely, too, Dean.”

“I wasn’t alone,” Dean says, frowning. “I was with Dad.”

“That’s not the same thing, Dean. You know it’s not.” When Dean doesn’t respond, Sam adds, “I can’t even imagine how lonely that must have been.”

Dean’s knuckles are white against the steering wheel. He opens his mouth as though to argue, then closes it again. Sam can hear it as Dean twists his hands against the leather.

“It’s fine,” Dean says, trying to choke out the lie like it doesn’t pain him and missing by a mile. He forces a laugh at how unconvincing it is. “I mean, it wasn’t fine, but I--” He takes a deep breath. He tries again. “Besides,” Dean says, voice lighter, and Sam can tell he’s forcing himself to try and be positive. “It doesn’t matter any more. You’re not nine, begging to go on your first hunt. You’re all grown up and here hunting with me. Not a moment’s peace. No more loneliness, right?”

Sam decides to roll with it. After all, he knows what it’s like to try to see the good in all this, to figure out if there’s some point or purpose. He’s been making that effort for years, now. He knows how difficult it can be. “We even have a home to go back to,” Sam says. “Not some shitty motel. And Cas waiting for us instead of Dad trying to drag us halfway across the country.”

It’s a short list, Sam knows. But it’s more than he’s had since he was a baby.

“Yeah,” Dean says, smiling faintly. “See? Problem solved.”

They sit in companionable silence for a while, both of them watching the road. Sam is relieved to find some of the tension has eased, and he’s hesitant to break the tentative peace.

Still, he feels there’s still one more thing to be said. Because Sully isn’t here to say it. Because Dean never had an imaginary friend to tell him that he isn’t their father. That he’s Dean, and Dean is so awesome.

“One thing hasn’t changed since I was nine,” Sam says.

Dean raises an eyebrow, flicks Sam a quick glance.

Sam smiles. He says, “I still want to be a hero like my big brother.”

Dean is a hero. Sam believes this. Sam will say it, even if no one else will.

“Sam,” Dean says, pleading. “You can’t--”

“I’m not nine any more, but I know you’re still scared for me,” Sam says, interrupting before Dean can deny it. Before he can deny any of it. Dean grimaces, but he keeps quiet. Sam huffs a nervous laugh. “Hell, I’m scared, too, all right? But I can do this, Dean. We’re heroes, even if we’re not perfect. We saved the world before. We can do it again.”

Dean, for his part, still doesn’t look convinced.

Then again, just a couple days ago, Dean didn’t think imaginary friends really existed, and look at him now.

Sam, for one, isn’t going to stop believing.


End file.
